


Mulder's Moon

by quercus



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-04-01
Updated: 1999-04-01
Packaged: 2017-10-07 15:05:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/66309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quercus/pseuds/quercus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Melissa Scully re-enters Scully's and Mulder's lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mulder's Moon

Scully stares disconsolately out her bedroom window, watching the rain thunder down and wishing she were somewhere warm and dry. Each day dawns grey and miserable; she is grey and miserable. Winter refuses to retreat, and spring seems unimaginably distant.

She's determined to do more than mope in bed on this Saturday morning. Coffee, more coffee, maybe just one more cup, then she's ready to tackle cleaning her bedroom closet. That's her only assignment. Once that's done, she'll yield to the allure of an old movie; maybe _An Affair to Remember_. Something that'll make her cry.

Still bundled in her flannel nightie, she opens her closet door and begins pulling out hangers of clothing. Three piles: keep, clean, discard. The discard pile grows and grows; mostly her fat clothes from when she'd been assigned to Quantico. God, after dreading being partnered with Mulder so much, she certainly had been miserable when they'd been separated.

She sighs and pauses for a moment. Mulder. She loves him as much as she loves her brothers; maybe more than bossy Bill. His sweet nature, brilliant mind, and absurd wit are a formidable combination. Why aren't they lovers?

Well, she admits to herself, returning to her task, maybe I know the answer. They were too close now. Whatever opportunity there may have been -- and she wasn't convinced there'd ever been one -- had long since passed them by.

But he deserves someone. Someone special, who would love him for who he is, not who they want him to be. Someone strong, intelligent, honest, good. Someone as good-looking as he is. Someone who will love him enough for him to learn to love himself.

As the clothes pile up on her bed and her closet clears, she becomes aware of a box tucked in the back, behind her shoes. She slows to study it and then remembers. It's Melissa's. Books and stuff, thrown in the box shortly after her death. She's never touched them since.

Scully sits on the floor and thinks. Is she ready for this? Should she leave this box alone? Can she bear to touch Melissa's possessions? Slowly, she reaches out, leaning forward, and traces the contours of the box with one finger. It's dusty.

Suddenly she can't bear it. She must see what's in the box. She pulls it toward her, pries off the masking tape, and lifts the flaps.

Books. Margot Adler's _Drawing Down the Moon_. Susan Bowes' _Notions and Potions_. Starhawk's _The Spiral Dance_. New-agey horseshit, she thinks ruefully, as she pulls out more books. Under the first layer of books is a deep mauve cotton sweater; exactly the wrong color for her hair and complexion. But the material is soft and it smells deeply of Melissa, a scent captured here for two years, waiting to be inhaled by a lonely younger sister. She pulls on the sweater, right over her nightie, and cuddles herself in it. Oh, Missy; where are you?

Beneath the sweater is another box, a pretty white cardboard one, the material embossed with spirals. It's tied with a wide, sky-blue silk ribbon. Scully carefully lifts it from the larger box and sets it on her knees. She gently tugs on the ribbon, which instantly gives, and lifts off the top.

A curious collection of objects. A small grey marble mortar and pestle. An odd, double-headed, black-handled knife. A rounded cup, no handle, carved from some dark wood. A twist of paper that, when opened, reveals a small pile of white crystals: salt. Some kind of pot pourri, several candles of different colors, and, at the very bottom, a spiral notebook, well worn.

The notebook seems to be filled with recipes, written in Melissa's hand. But they're not recipes for food. At first she's not sure what they're for until, flipping pages, she finds one titled "Calling Love." She studies that one carefully. It describes the ingredients of a charm and the process of charging it. In the margin is a note: "For sexually passionate love."

Scully thinks again of Mulder. For a moment she toys with an idea, but quickly abandons it. She is not going to cast love spells for her partner; she is sure of that. She carries the box to her bedside table and slips the top back on. Let's finish the job at hand.

* * *

Sunday, Scully awakens to a dull ache in her breasts and a bloated feeling. She wishes her period would hurry up and start, so the premenstrual blues would leave. Missy used to say that the best way to get rid of PMS was to wear white pants; maybe she should try it.

It's another cold rainy day in late April. She sits in bed, her knees pulled up to her chest, and studies the weather again. Will this miserable winter ever release me?

Her phone rings, and she knows it's Mulder. "Hi," she answers simply, and he's off, describing something he watched in the middle of the night, about aliens controlling the House of Representatives but who can't catch a break in the Senate. She half listens, enjoying his voice and disembodied presence, while fingering the items in Melissa's white box. Dried rose petals. A bay leave. A shiny copper penny. More blue silk ribbon.

Suddenly she remembers the charm, for sexually passionate love. Mulder natters on, something about Art Bell and his mysterious disappearance and reappearance. Scully mm-hmms while reading Missy's notes.

When Mulder pauses -- and he always pauses, he's a polite man if a bit obsessed -- she asks, "Are you lonely?"

"Scully? Are you all right?"

"Yes, of course. But are you lonely?"

"Why? Got a date for me?"

"Would you like it if I did?"

"No!" Now he sounds worried. "You're not going to try to set me up with someone, are you?"

"No, no. I wouldn't do that. I just was wondering."

He pauses, and she can imagine his handsome face pulled into a thoughtful frown, considering her question. "Sometimes," he admits. "Usually not; I'm too busy. But sometimes."

She nods. "Okay. I won't bother you; I just needed to know."

Sounding a bit subdued, he bids her goodbye and leaves her to her thoughts.

Charged with determination, she carries the box and notebook into the kitchen and begins organizing the items in it, looking for the ingredients needed for Missy's recipe. She's going to do this right.

* * *

Mulder stares disconsolately out the window above his desk, noticing it's still marked with a blurry X from the many layers of masking tape he's put there over the years. Scully's question has depressed him. Is he lonely? Jesus, Scully; how many years together? And why weren't they lovers, anyway? Why weren't they lying in bed together in some decent apartment, arguing over the newspaper, a cat at their feet?

But he knows the answer. Whatever possibility they'd had as a couple had been lost in the difficult years they'd spent as partners. Never really a possibility, anyway. He loves Scully more than he loves any living person, but that's just *not* gonna happen.

He can't sit in this dismal apartment one minute more. It's too wet to go running, even for him, so he grabs his gear and leaves for the gym.

* * *

Scully has found several pink votive candles in a kitchen drawer. Following the instructions Missy had written, she carves FM on the side of each one, and then dabs some perfume on them. She's supposed to be anointing them with an essential oil, but all she has is CK One; that's pretty essential in her world. She arranges them on her dining room table, standing them in round clear glass holders.

She pours a small pile of salt in one corner of the table, and places a cup of water in another, a feather from a pillow in the third, and some potting soil from a house plant in the fourth. The items are supposed to represent the four elements: fire, water, air, and earth. The flowers she bought for herself last night are already arranged in the center of the table, in a vase her mother had given her years ago.

Then she takes a page from the notebook and sits at the table with a red felt pen, tapping it against her chin. She draws a big, child- like heart on the page; it looks nothing like the heart she knows beats in Mulder's chest, but that isn't the point. Inside the heart, she writes: intelligent, kind, funny, insightful, gentle, sexy, giving, thoughtful, emotionally ready for a commitment. That's what Mulder's heart has to offer.

On the reverse side she draws another heart and lists the same attributes, plus an age range (thirty-five to fifty-five; she wants to give Mulder a fighting chance, but no bimbos) and the words "free of other emotional ties." Those are the attributes for his lover.

She moves the chairs away from the table and lights the candles. The room glows, and she doesn't feel nearly as silly as she did earlier. Pulling the notebook closer to her, she breathes deeply several times, and then recites:

Draw to Mulder his perfect mate  
That he may love dear and true   
Let him or her his twin soul be   
And let their union bring infinite blessings   
On all they do and on all they meet. So mote it be.

She repeats this two more times, her voice growing in volume and confidence with each repetition. She tries to see Mulder happy in a relationship, in bed with someone, in the kitchen, out running. When she's through reciting, she takes another deep breath, and then, careful not to damage her table, burns the picture of the two hearts. She imagines the smoke circling up through her apartment out into the grey sky of Washington, like some secret message sent to the world.

* * *

At the gym, heading back to the pool, Mulder has to pass the enormous glassed-in weight room. Idly, he peers in; who's here? It's pretty full; in this weather, everybody's had the same idea. Where the corridor to the locker room branches off the main one by the weight room, he pauses. Hey, that's Skinner. Spotted by two others, he's standing at the back of the room on a black mat, holding a long bar with enormous wheels of weights at either end. His face reveals his intense concentration, and every muscle of his body is engaged in the activity. The muscles in his arms are knotted with his effort. With a sudden move, he levitates the weight above his head and holds it there for several seconds, then drops it, gracefully stepping back. He shakes his head at something one of his spotters says, takes a cloth handed to him, and wipes his hands and face. He is slick with sweat.

Mulder turns away quickly and promises himself never to cross Skinner again. He obviously could bench press Mulder while simultaneously conducting a budget meeting. Not a man to piss off.

The water feels so good. Its refreshing embrace helps him shake off the depression Scully's question evoked. He slices through his lane feeling energized and fit. He loves the sensual feel of buoyancy the water brings him, and the laps speed by. Every stroke pulls him faster and farther along; each turn is crisp and timed perfectly. He loses himself in the high of the exercise.

Later, in the shower, he wonders at that. Usually, only running gives him that wonderful endorphin high. Swimming is a different pleasure. But today he had both -- the sensuality of the water and the high of the exercise. How strange. Great swim.

He lets the hot water pound down on his face and shoulders, swinging his arms a little to loosen them up from the exertion. When he turns, he notices a well-built man standing under the stream of the shower head opposite him. Skinner.

Mulder is stunned by Skinner's body. He knew that, under those suits, he was fit, but his nudity reveals him as beautifully put together as a Greek statue. Perfect vee of a back, tapering down to a narrow waist and an awe-inspiring ass. Long slim legs and trim feet. Jesus. Mulder's eyes return to Skinner's butt. Talk about cracking walnuts. He has the strangest desire to fall to his knees and begin licking.

Suddenly Skinner turns. Mulder spins around so he's facing the water again and lets it sluice over him. His entire body feels flushed, with embarrassment and something else. And then his goddam penis decides he hasn't been embarrassed enough and starts to raise its head. Christ. Before all the blood leaves his brain, he manages to turn off the hot water. He almost cries out in pain at the temperature change, but he simply cannot walk out of the shower room with an erection leading the way. When his body is once more under his control, he leaves without a glance back.

* * *

Skinner stands under the hot water, a little bemused at what's transpired. Mulder had been checking out his ass. He's been checked out often enough to recognize it when it happens, and his favorite subordinate had been checking him out. Skinner isn't vain about his body, but he works very hard to maintain its shape and contours and he knows other people notice his efforts. But Mulder? He isn't sure how he feels about Mulder noticing.

He likes Mulder; he likes Mulder very much. That's one of the reasons he's so strict with him; it would be simple, even pleasurable, to let Mulder run wild. He's never known anyone with an intelligence as fierce as Mulder's, nor with a need for security as great. Skinner is proud that he, along with Scully, is trusted by this most-untrusting man. He knows that he can reel Mulder in only because Mulder permits him to.

Yet Skinner also recognizes that Mulder's paranoia has paradoxically made him almost desperate for someone to trust, and he regularly promises himself not to abuse that trust. That, too, would be easy. He sees how lonely Mulder is. Why aren't he and Scully lovers? He can think of only one answer, but he'll never ask that question.

Skinner stays in the shower for a long while, giving Mulder time to dress and leave. He doesn't want to embarrass his subordinate any more than he obviously already is. He wonders whether that erection will return tonight, and whether he'll be the object of Mulder's masturbatory fantasy. His own penis stirs in response to the thought, and he too turns off the hot water.

* * *

Another shitty day in Paradise, Scully thinks, throwing her briefcase down on the sofa. Mulder had been in a pissy mood all day, starting at their meeting with Skinner. What was his problem? She sometimes fantasizes that Skinner would finally get fed up with Mulder's attitude, throw him over his desk, and whale his backside with his commemorative Janet Reno ruler while Scully cheers him on. Today that fantasy seems especially attractive. Scully doesn't think there really is such a thing as a commemorative Janet Reno ruler, but she's tempted to have one created and give it to Skinner next Christmas. He wouldn't need an instruction booklet.

She showers off the tension of the day and fixes herself a cup of SleepyTime tea. Tosses it out and pours a glass of chenin blanc. Wanders back to the living room, wondering if there's anything on tv, and sees Melissa's notebook, open to the charm. Why not.

She checks the newspaper and learns that the moon will be full on Friday; therefore, the moon is waxing. Melissa's notes say that the waxing moon is best for spells of growth, and the full moon for spells of culmination and love. Okay.

Scully takes another sip of the wine, sets down the glass, and stands facing east. Keeping the notebook within easy reach, she takes a deep breath, then another, and closes her eyes for a moment. When she opens them, she says, "Hail, Guardians of the Watchtowers. Hail, Watchtower of the East, Powers of Air." She breathes deeply again, then turns ninety degrees to her right.

"Hail, Guardians of the Watchtowers. Hail, Watchtower of the South, Powers of Fire." She closes her eyes and images the warmth she so longs for. Maybe in Hawaii. She tries to remember the sensation of sun on her skin. Then she turns again to her right.

"Hail, Guardians of the Watchtowers. Hail, Watchtower of the West, Powers of Water." She pictures long white beaches, impossibly blue skies mirrored in impossibly blue water. Silence, except for the sound of the waves whispering as they curl onto shore.

She turns again. "Hail, Guardians of the Watchtowers. Hail, Watchtower of the North, Powers of Earth." Now she pictures fields of cane sugar, lava, palm trees, white sand. Two sets of footprints across an otherwise empty beach.

She takes another deep breath and returns facing east, raises her hands above her head and claps them three times. Smiling, she opens her eyes, feeling a little foolish but, in spite of herself, better. Calmer. Happier. Just needed a little oxygen, she tells herself, but she can almost hear Missy's laughter.

From her briefcase, Scully takes a small paper bag and removes a length of deep red velvet and a new pair of scissors for cutting material. She'd been grateful that the clerk in the fabric store hadn't asked what she needed the material for. Using the base of a floor lamp, she traces a circle about nine inches in diameter on the material and cuts out the circle. She takes the mortar and pestle from the box, a red candle, and the salt. From the kitchen she fetches matches and a stick of incense her godson had given her last year. She sniffs it tentatively; it smells a little like sage. Back to the kitchen for a bottle of water and a shallow bowl, a pretty thing she picked up at a pottery sale on the mall last summer, into which she pours some salt.

She arranges all these items on her dining room table, lights the candle and sets the incense burning. She stands a moment more, assessing the table, then turns off all the lights. At the table again, she feels silly, but determined. This is a gift: to herself, to Mulder, to Melissa.

She closes her eyes again and takes another deep breath. When she feels ready, she opens her eyes and, following the notebook's instructions, begins putting things into the mortar: acacia flowers, jasmine, lavender, rose buds from a bouquet she bought on the way home just for this purpose. She slowly grinds them together, into a rather nasty-looking mess, but she supposes that's irrelevant. The smell is nice, though, very fresh and sweet.

As she grinds, she pictures Mulder in love. Mooning over someone. And she pictures that someone deeply in love with Mulder, mooning over him. She has no name or face or even gender to assign to this person, only qualities that Mulder deserves. Honest as the day is long, so as never to disappoint Mulder with a lie. Sweet and a little sentimental, to counter Mulder's cynicism. Loyal to a fault. Physically attractive, whatever that might mean to Mulder. Sexy. And passionate.

She pauses in her grinding. Passionate. She closes her eyes and imagines Mulder wrapped in someone's arms. Eyes closed, face flushed, head thrown back in ecstasy. Body humming with pleasure, shivering with desire. She can picture this as clearly as she can her own living room.

She takes another deep breath and resumes grinding. Almost a paste now, surely that's enough. She pauses to read the notebook again, and scrapes the mess into the center of the red velvet circle and adds a shiny copper penny. She cuts a length of the blue silk ribbon and ties the circle into a small bag, using seven knots.

Holding the charm to her breast, she again pictures Mulder loved and in love. No more pissy moods. A little less hyperactive, less inclined to ditch her, less supercilious when she disagrees with him. Wait, Dana, she tells herself, this isn't about you. She starts again.

Mulder in love. Physically and emotionally and, yes, spiritually in love. He deserves it all. A happy ever after, if anyone ever gets one. She breathes on the charm, then passes it swiftly through the fire of the candle. She breathes on it again, and then dips it in the salt. She breathes on it once more, and dabs it with the water. She holds the charm in her cupped hands, just above her pelvis, and focuses all her considerable attention on it. Oh, Melissa, please help me; help Mulder find the someone he needs.

She puts the charm down and turns to face each direction again, thanking the Guardians of the Watchtowers. She feels significantly sillier this time, but obediently follows Melissa's instructions. Scully doesn't like to do things half-way.

* * *

When Mulder returns from the restroom the next morning, he finds Scully a little flushed, half laughing to herself. "What? What happened?"

"Nothing, Mulder." At his look, she laughs again, and confesses, "Don't you do things sometimes that you can't later explain?"

"Oooh, Scully." But he certainly doesn't want to pursue that line of thought. Of course he does things he can't explain, but he dislikes imagining Scully doing so. She smiles very kindly at him, and volunteers to fetch them more coffee.

A few hours later, as he's pulling on his raincoat and extracting his still dripping umbrella from the trashcan, he asks, "Wanna grab a bite?"

Scully studies him for a moment, the flush he remembers from earlier that day returning. "No, not today. You go on. I'll get something from the cafeteria." He nods, waves his umbrella goodbye, and heads toward the elevator.

Upstairs in the lobby, weaving through the crowds of tourists escaping the never-ending rain, he literally runs into Skinner. He almost bounces off that powerful body, recoiling in surprise. "Excuse me, sir," he begins, but Skinner's look stops him.

"Going to lunch, Agent Mulder?" He nods. "If you're not meeting anyone, why don't you have lunch with me?" Mulder feels his lips open to say, no thanks, but hears himself accepting the invitation. Puzzled, he follows in Skinner's wake. It's like the parting of the Red Sea; people fall back as if it were his seignorial right.

Skinner leads him to a small cafe not far from the Hoover but one Mulder's never noticed before. Skinner's known there, greeted by the staff and led to a large table in the rear. He sits facing the door and gestures for Mulder to join him. The waiter has already brought him coffee, and pours a cup for Mulder as well.

"Almost anything on the menu is good, Agent Mulder, but stay away from the Polish sausage unless Scully really loves garlic." But Mulder isn't sure he can eat; he can't seem to take his eyes off his boss. He's blushing, he can tell, and is grateful it's a dreary day. He hopes his befuddlement isn't completely obvious. He orders a burger and fries, then a salad. Scully is always with him in his mind, now, worrying about his diet. To compensate for the salad, he orders a chocolate milkshake, too.

Skinner's smiling slightly: is his lunch order amusing? The light reflecting off his glasses hides his eyes, so Mulder can't always tell what he's looking at, but he seems to be watching Mulder as much as Mulder is watching him. This is so weird. Taking a deep breath, Mulder begins summarizing a science fiction movie he'd seen last night, about a supermodel who fell to the center of the earth. Skinner doesn't seem as fascinated with the story as Mulder had been, but he listens quietly and laughs appropriately, shaking his head at Mulder's description of the monsters.

Finally, Skinner says, "Did you hear that aliens have control of the House of Representatives?" Mulder's mouth actually falls open in surprise. "That might explain their recent behavior, don't you think?"

* * *

Finally, Scully can take it no more. "Mulder, what's *wrong*? You haven't heard a word I said all afternoon. Did something happen at lunch? Are you getting sick?" She puts her hand to his forehead, a gesture that makes Mulder nuts, and he pulls away.

"No, I'm fine, Scully. Actually, something did happen, though." From the look on his face, she can tell he is reluctant to continue, but eventually he says, "I had lunch with Skinner today."

Her mouth drops and her eyes widen, then she starts to laugh. "Oh, yeah, and I shared a hot dog with Kenneth Starr."

"Scully," he says crossly, "you asked and I'm telling you. I ran into him and he asked me to lunch. Even paid."

"You're serious?" She's bewildered, stunned, and feels her face twist into an expression of puzzlement. "Have you ever had lunch with him before?"

"Well, not with him. I mean, I've see him in the cafeteria, or sometimes when we're on cases, but he's never asked me to go with him or paid for my food before."

"What on earth did you talk about?"

"Aliens." That sets her off laughing again.

"I *love* it. This is wonderful."

"It isn't *that* funny."

"No, you're right," and she tries to sober up, but her smile keeps breaking through. "Actually, I'm really glad. You spend too much time alone, and I bet he does, too. This is great, Mulder." And she smiles again, absolutely delighted. She hugs him, as much to her surprise as his. When he speaks again, he's finally focusing on their case, and she doesn't change the topic. But she's thinking about Skinner, and about the charm she's hidden in Mulder's raincoat pocket.

* * *

That night, Scully stops off at a greengrocer near her home and buys a dozen apricots, a bag of Brazil nuts, and two beautiful and very expensive hot-house tomatoes. The next day, she takes BLTs to work along with the apricots and nuts: offerings to Mulder. He steadily noshes his way through the Brazil nuts and even eats two apricots; the BLTs are gone by their mid-morning break. He's clearly puzzled by her unusual behavior, but willing to accept her largess. She hopes that these items really do "vibrate to the energy of love" as promised in Melissa's notebook.

* * *

Mulder is enjoying Scully's latest mood. Male-like, he ascribes it to some hormonal thing, not that he'd risk his life by telling her. The sandwiches had been great, and he'd no idea that he liked Brazil nuts. Very tasty, although he missed the ritual of opening the seed of a sunflower. That's more than half their pleasure.

He's staring into a urinal on the second floor of the Hoover, having run an errand for Scully, picking up results from the lab. He's almost finished peeing when the door opens and he sees from the corner of his eye that it's Skinner. His urine flow ceases immediately, and he feels incredibly awkward, standing there with his dick in his hand. He hastily shakes it and stuffs it back in his pants before it can get him in trouble again.

Washing his hands, he nods at Skinner, who nods back and goes about his business. Mulder rolls his head back, relaxing his muscles in his neck, hearing them pop as he does so. His entire body is as tense as a coiled spring, and he wants to leap out at Skinner. He feels, he admits to himself, crazy. He turns and picks up the manila folder he'd left on the shelf by the door when he hears Skinner say his name.

"Yessir?"

Skinner's face is a study in surprise, as if he hadn't known he'd say anything. The two men stare at each other in the ugly flickering glare of the fluorescent lighting. Skinner walks to the sinks and washes his hands, too. At last he says, "I'll walk you to the elevator." And he does. It's uncomfortable, neither speaks, and certainly Mulder can't understand the gesture. At the bank of elevators, Mulder presses down and Skinner up, their hands skimming each other as they do. Mulder feels an electric charge jump from Skinner's hands to him, one that jolts his heart and sends a flush to his face. Even though he's slightly taller than Skinner, the other man's bulk makes him feel smaller, almost fragile. He swears he can feel the heat of Skinner's body.

Fortunately, this area of the second floor is not busy, so no one has observed their behavior. Mulder isn't sure what it would look like anyway. Two guys, just hanging? One man mooning over another? Or two idiots standing silently in a hallway?

He has never been more relieved to hear the ding announcing the arrival of an elevator. Up. Skinner enters, then turns toward him. Mulder sees that his face is red, too. Skinner shakes his head very slightly, but says nothing more. The doors close and he disappears. Thank god.

What the fuck is going on?

* * *

When Mulder arrives at work the next day, Scully is already there, and a small box waits on his chair seat. It's wrapped in red paper with a red bow, and has his name on a tag, written in red ink. He looks quizzically at her, and she smiles.

"It's not my birthday. Is it our anniversary as partners?" he asks as he rips the paper off.

"No, there's no reason. I saw them and, well, just thought of you." He's surprised and slightly embarrassed when he pulls from the white tissue paper not one but two pairs of red silk boxers. "I've seen your underwear often enough to know you could use some new ones. And these are -- nice."

Well, he'd hardly call them *nice*, he thinks. But the silk is cool and soft to the touch, and she certainly has seen enough of his stained cotton boxers decorated with happy faces and SCHWA aliens to know he could always use more.

"Thank you," he says a little uncertainly, but her face is so open, so happy for him that he must smile back, and this time he hugs her. He is still embracing her, underwear in hand, when the door opens and Skinner steps in. "Oops," Mulder says, and Scully turns as red as the boxers, hand to her mouth.

"Oh, sir," she begins, but Skinner smiles and shakes his head, putting his hand up to stop her explanation.

"It's all right, Agent Scully. I never question the relationship of partners as successful as you two."

"No, no," Scully says, and Mulder feels compelled to add his own disavowal of what the scene appears to be.

"They're just a gift, sir; it isn't want it looks like." But Skinner still smiles gently at them, a little sadly, and changes the topic.

* * *

Skinner stares disconsolately out his office window, watching the unceasing rain. He's twisted his chair completely around so its back is to his desk; he's uninterested in the work spread out on it. The wind changes direction and suddenly the rain shoots against the window as if aimed at him. He flinches slightly, but continues to watch.

He's pondering the scene he stumbled onto in the basement a few minutes ago. He would have sworn that there was nothing between Mulder and Scully; in fact, he had begun to count on it. But there they were, arms around each other, and Mulder holding a pair of deep red silk boxers. Very attractive they would be on him, Skinner thinks, imagining that runner's body clad only in them. He had noticed Mulder's body that day in the shower, and it has returned to haunt him almost daily. Well, it had been only three days; that was Sunday, today was Wednesday. This is just some short-term obsession; everyone experiences them. A crush. There's no reason to be disturbed at the thought of Mulder having a physical relationship with his partner. She's a beautiful woman, intelligent, thoughtful, caring. She can be a little cold at times, but no sign that she's unforgiving, and she's certainly been good for Mulder in the years they've been partnered. In his professional experience, an exceptionally successful partnership, one he would never jeopardize.

Still. He feels some pressure in his chest, and he's having a little trouble breathing. Is he having a heart attack? The pressure increases and moves up to this throat. He has to swallow suddenly, and then his eyes fill with tears. Oh shit. He's goddammit crying over a subordinate who's in love with somebody else. What an asshole. He rubs his face and sniffs vigorously, and turns back to his work. What an asshole.

* * *

Wednesday night, Scully has dinner at her mother's, who notices that she's a little distant, lost in thought. When questioned, she confesses her concerns about Mulder.

"Fox is a wonderful man," her mother agrees. "I wish the two of you could -- "

But Scully cuts her mother off. "Oh, Mom, that's never going to happen. I love Mulder, and I know he loves me; he's told me so. But he isn't the man I need as a husband. To be honest, Mom," and she turns those blue eyes, her father's eyes, onto her mother's worried face, "I'm not sure I'll ever marry. I love my work too much and, now that I know I can't have children, I don't see the point."

Her mother begins to protest, but stops. Dana has always been different. Stronger, more independent, more stubborn than all her other children combined. Even Melissa's fey ways were more comprehensible to her than Dana's serious-mindedness. She nods her head, not in understanding, but in the beginning of acceptance.

"But Fox needs someone," she agrees, and they fall into a delicious conversation of speculation about the right person for Fox Mulder.

* * *

Thursday morning, Mulder and Scully are back in Skinner's office. She knows that no other AD directly supervises a department, and is a little embarrassed that theirs is so handled, but she likes and respects Skinner so much more than she ever did that horrible Blevins. Skinner is, as usual, grinding his teeth; Mulder is, as usual, being a jerk; and Scully, unusually, is looking at the two men in speculation and wonder. Behind Skinner, the rain slams into the window, punctuating his complaints.

The conversation is, as it has been all week, focused on a report they'd turned in about their last case. Apparently, absolutely everything is wrong with it. Scully wouldn't be surprised to hear Skinner complain that they'd used the wrong font or paper. She'd known the report was problematic when they'd submitted it, but Mulder had insisted. He seems at times to enjoy the little dance he and Skinner engage in. Ultimately, Skinner would return the report as unacceptable and Scully would re-write it. Mulder would grouse, Skinner would grouse, and they'd all retire to their corners to start again. Since she knows where this discussion will end, she feels free to ignore it and study the participants.

Both are handsome men. Both dress well. Both exude a masculinity she finds quite attractive: not macho, but very male. Both are intelligent, kind, funny, insightful, gentle, sexy, giving, thoughtful -- holy shit, that's the list she wrote on the paper heart she'd burned on Sunday. She sits up abruptly in her chair, drawing their eyes to her, but she shakes her head and settles back, not disrupting the ritual disagreement. Holy shit.

Mentally, she begins a shopping list. All new supplies for an all-out assault. If Melissa's notebook holds any magic, if her sister had any powers, Scully will draw them out and wield them like a sword. She wishes she had the notebook with her; she needs to know more. Well, she'll go straight home after work and read it, then take off early Friday afternoon to get the supplies. Friday's a full moon; it's also April 30, May Eve. That's supposed to be a powerful day, so she'll use its power, too. One last effort, never to be spoken of, because who would believe that Dr. Dana Scully, federal agent and forensic pathologist, would stoop to magic?

* * *

Friday morning Scully's period starts. She is simultaneously relieved and annoyed. Her breasts have stopped aching and she doesn't feel nearly as fat, but now she has to fuss with all the accouterments of menstruation. She knows if men menstruated they'd have figured something else out centuries ago. Extra tampons and panty liners in her briefcase, and she adds them to her peculiar shopping list for more magic supplies, because there's always next month's cycle to prepare for as well.

Mulder seems almost pleased by her announcement that she's going to leave early. He remains lost in his own thoughts all morning, and is happy to leave the re-writing of the report to her. She'll work on it over the weekend, she decides. Her uterus is cramping a bit, so she takes some ibuprofen with her cold coffee. Yuck.

"Mulder, would you get me more coffee? I brought you some yesterday." He agrees, as she knew he would. As soon as he's out of the office she checks his raincoat pocket; the charm is still there. She pulls it out and fluffs it up a bit, gives it a kiss for luck, and tucks it back in. When he returns, she's at her desk, editing the report in question, humming happily.

Noon simply cannot arrive soon enough.

* * *

After Scully leaves, off on some personal errands to start the weekend, Mulder leans back in his chair. He has been so out of it this week. Maybe it's the constant rain, or lack of sunshine. Seasonal Affective Disorder. He pulls out a tabloid he'd picked up on his way to work and begins reading an article about small grey men spotted on the grounds of Graceland.

There's a knock on the door, and Skinner enters, rather cautiously. No doubt hoping not to interrupt another scene, Mulder thinks sourly. "Scully went home early," he tells him. "I think she's getting ready for some big date tonight."

Skinner looks a little surprised at the non-sequitor, but nods. "About that report, Agent Mulder --"

"We're re-doing it, sir. You're right, I didn't follow procedure, either in my investigation or in the format of the report. I'm sorry. I don't know why I do that to you so regularly." Mulder couldn't be more surprised if a baby chick had hopped out of his mouth and, from the look on his supervisor's face, neither could Skinner.

"Well. Um, yes, I've noticed that. But I came to apologize myself. The nature of the cases you investigate do warrant different investigative procedures; I'm aware of that. I'm just trying to protect you and Scully from outsiders who don't understand." Now Mulder is surprised at Skinner's words.

"Thank you, sir. That means a lot. I'll work harder at following procedure." Okay, something is wrong, Mulder thinks. I'm at home in bed and this is a dream.

Skinner nods several times, as if confirming something to himself, then levers himself up out of Scully's chair. "Good. Thank you. I look forward to reading your next report."

He turns to go but stops when Mulder says, "Sir?" He turns back and the two men stare at each other. Finally, Mulder says, "Would you like to have dinner tonight? If you don't have any other plans?"

Skinner takes an enormous breath, swelling his chest beneath his suit jacket and glowing white shirt. "I would like that, Agent Mulder. When and where?"

Mulder is at a complete loss. Somehow Tony's House of Chow Mein doesn't strike him as a place Skinner would enjoy. "Can you suggest somewhere?"

Skinner's gaze moves away from him, off into a middle distance of thought. Then he says, "Come to my place. At seven." He abruptly leaves before Mulder can agree or disagree.

Jesus Christ on a crutch. He's having dinner at Skinner's.

* * *

Scully has put Melissa Etheridge on her stereo and set the CD to continually play "Come to My Window." Time for the big guns. A little sympathetic magic in addition to the charm she made and the ritual she's preparing. Against all possibility, against all reason, she appears to have been successful at the tasks she'd set herself this week. Maybe Mulder isn't in love yet, but he's primed as any pump. If this works, he'll be pumping tonight. She grins at her nasty humor and feels Melissa's presence with her. Missy could be earthy in a way that Dana loved and envied; not something she's much good at.

She's wearing Melissa's sweater, too, to help invoke her sister's power. Her preparations have been complex, but fortunately much of what she needed was in the box she'd found. The knife, which she's discovered is called an athame. The cup, which is a chalice. She already had a red candle, although she bought a larger one and a dozen votives as well, all rose scented. They're lit and glowing throughout her home. She has rose incense burning, and rose pot pourri in little dishes, also scattered throughout the apartment. According to Melissa's notes, red is the color of passionate love and lust. Scully's going to get Mulder loved and laid if it kills her.

The thought arouses her. She knows that's in part because she's been wearing a tampon all day; a tube of compressed cotton in one's vagina certainly focuses attention on one's sexuality and sensuality. She also knows she's going to masturbate after the ceremony and is looking forward to the release. The steadily increasing tension as she anticipates her pleasure excites her. Altogether a good state of mind to be in to cast her final spell.

At last she's ready. All the candles are lit and the room smells of roses. She's unplugged the phone and turned off her cell phone. She's holding in her hand a ceramic bowl she'd purchased today just for this purpose; in it is a small pool of her menstrual blood.

She raises the bowl above her head, closes her eyes, and takes a deep breath. As she had on Monday, she invokes the Guardians of the Four Watchtowers, turning toward each direction. When she's through, she places the bowl on the table and picks up another bowl, a crystal one, of water; with this she invokes the Moon.

"Oh Mother Moon, goddess of growth, sexuality, and love, hear me, please. I ask your help. This is May Eve, a time when sweet desire weds wild delight, a time of flowering, of fulfillment, of wordless power, of passionate love. Hear me!

"My best and dearest friend, a brother of my heart, needs love. Oh Mother Moon, see Mulder happy, embraced, adored, enveloped in another's love. Oh Mother Moon, I beg you, help me help my friend."

Scully sets the water on the table, and picks up the athame. She dips her finger into the menstrual blood and wipes it on both sides of the blade, then holds the knife with both hands above her head, tip pointed toward the sky. "This is Walter Sergei Skinner!" She places the knife across the top of the chalice. Using her fingers, she scrapes the blood from the bowl into the chalice. Leaving her fingers bloody, she carefully picks up the chalice, keeping the knife balanced, and cries, "This is Fox William Mulder!" She raises the chalice and knife above her head, closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and imagines them together. As a couple; hand in hand; lying together in bed; arguing across a breakfast table. Fucking. The image of the two men excites her and she shudders pleasurably. She slowly places the chalice and knife back on the table and washes her hands in the bowl of water, watching it cloud as the blood leaves her hands. She sprinkles a little of the bloody water over the knife and chalice, then a little salt, and finally the rose pot pourri.

She again invokes the moon, this time releasing her energy. She tries to pay attention to what she's doing, but she's twisting her legs together and has to force herself to release the circle. When she's faced all four directions and thanked the Guardians, she rushes to her bedroom and falls backward onto the bed. Oh my god.

* * *

The rains pounds down on Mulder's umbrella as he stands outside Skinner's apartment building. He doesn't think he's ever seen it rain harder. He's almost reluctant to leave the exciting weather, but he can't be late.

There's another kind of excitement building in him, anyway. He fidgets waiting for the elevator, in the elevator, finding the door, ringing the bell. Come *on*, Walter, Jesus. But when the door opens it's all he can do to keep from running back down the hallway to the elevator, or better yet, racing down the stairs.

Skinner is dressed in a black turtleneck and blue jeans, and by some weird magic Mulder is dressed identically. They study each other in surprise and then Skinner laughs. "I guess I should have called you first, checked out what you were going to wear."

"I thought this only happened to women at parties," Mulder complains as he enters the apartment. He has to admit, Skinner looks fantastic. The turtleneck emphasizes his chest and shoulders, and the jeans fit as if they'd been sprayed on. He hands Skinner a bottle of a chenin blanc that he's had at Scully's. "I hope you like white wine."

He nods, and leads the way to the kitchen, which is a mess. "I'm making lasagna."

Mulder is stunned. "You're kidding. You cook? I thought we'd order take-out."

"I don't cook a lot, but I enjoy it. This is my mom's recipe." Mulder's a little suspicious; he sees what looks like zucchini peeking out of the layers of wide noodles, but says nothing. There's garlic bread and a big salad with lots of little vegetable-looking things in it. Obviously, Skinner and Scully subscribe to the same beliefs about food.

"Open the wine, Mulder, and pour us a glass. The glasses are in the cupboard next to the fridge. The opener's in the drawer there," and Skinner nods. Mulder obediently opens the bottle and pours the golden wine into two handsome glasses; tall and clear with a thin blue edge at the rim.

"These are really pretty," he says and thinks, oh my god, what a jerk.

But Skinner says, "Thanks, I just bought them." Mulder takes a large sip of wine.

The evening is -- good, Mulder decides. Relaxed. Turns out they have a lot to talk about: people at work, sports, books, movies, computers, weird cousins, and finding inexpensive take-out. Nothing awkward at all. And the lasagna is good, even if it's vegetarian and full of green and orange things. No wonder Skinner looks so healthy.

They move to the living room after dinner and Skinner leaves him with the television remote while he pours them more wine. Mulder skims the channels with practiced ease, looking for something not too distracting but that will keep a low level of noise going in case they run out of things to say. Nothing, nothing, nothing. Bruce Springsteen was right. He settles on CNN; it's either that or the Weather Channel.

"I got dessert, too," Skinner announces as he brings the wine to Mulder and sits in the easy chair next to the couch. He's near enough to touch, yet somehow, by being in a different chair rather than on the same couch, it doesn't seem as intimate to Mulder. His comfort barometer is still in the acceptable range. "Ice cream."

"What kind?"

Skinner blushes slightly. "Well, I didn't know what you liked, so I went a little crazy and bought four kinds of Ben and Jerry. I figured one of them must be all right."

"Hell, I'll take all four."

"I'm not surprised. You look like a man who likes sweet things." Now why that comment should make both Skinner and Mulder flush escapes Mulder. He thinks, it isn't great wit, but it isn't a hopeless a double-entrendre. Yet they turn red and gulp their wine.

They sit quietly, listening to the news, or at least pretending to, until Skinner surprises Mulder by setting down his wine glass with a thump. He looks at Mulder steadily, gets up, and sits down next to him. Slowly, he reaches out and takes Mulder's hand.

Mulder stares at their two hands. His fingers slip through Skinner's and interlace themselves as if they'd been doing that for years. He feels almost dizzy with excitement. His breath is short and his eyesight appears to be failing. He gathers his courage and looks into Skinner's face. He bites his lip, and then smiles.

* * *

Mulder's smile should comfort Skinner, but it terrifies him. At least part of him had been hoping for a punch in the nose or outraged homophobia. Dear god, how will this end?

The two men stare at each other. Skinner honestly doesn't know what to do next. His brain has shut down and decided to rely on his body for instructions. Unfortunately, his body wants to seize Mulder and hump him like a poodle, but that seems a bit crass for a first date. Date. Oh my god.

Finally, after what must be several hours, Skinner scoots a little closer to Mulder, so their thighs touch. Then he cautiously reaches out with his other hand and, very lightly, strokes Mulder's face. That idiotic grin hasn't left his beautiful mouth yet, and grows even larger at Skinner's touch. Okay, so this isn't unwanted. He wishes Mulder would make a move, though.

As if in answer to his wish, Mulder sidles closer, so they are pressed tightly together, their hips and shoulders touching. He's still smiling but shaking his head slightly. "Jesus, Walt -- can I call you Walt, or is it still 'sir'?"

That makes Skinner laugh, and he says, "Please call me Walt. And what do I call you?"

"Mulder."

"Mulder. Mulder, may I kiss you?" Mulder turns bright red and Skinner knows he's incandescent as well.

"I can't stop smiling. It's really hard to kiss when I'm smiling." Both men laugh at this, but Skinner decides to try anyway. He leans forward, keeping his eyes on Mulder's until he can no longer focus. He takes a deep breath, as if he were diving into deep water, and slowly, gently, touches Mulder's mouth with his own. He's right; it's hard to kiss when you're smiling, but they manage. It's a wonderful kiss, a smiling kiss of acceptance and relief.

After only a moment he sits back, still smiling, but Mulder takes his head in his hands. "No you don't," he says, and pulls him back for another kiss. This is darker and deeper, and the smile leaves Skinner's face. A different kind of kiss altogether, one that lasts much longer and has another goal.

When they separate, Mulder's eyes are unfocused and his breathing has quickened. He kisses Skinner again and again, until Skinner reaches his hands around Mulder's waist and pulls him onto his lap. Mulder's legs obligingly part so he's kneeling over Skinner. He settles into his lap; through his jeans, Skinner feels Mulder's erection press into his own. It is an exquisite pain, and his hips lift in response. He drops his head back and Mulder begins kissing his jaw and throat and chest. He should have known Mulder would kiss well; all those sunflower seeds his tongue has cracked and opened.

"God, Mulder," he finally says, "stop a minute. I have *got* to loosen these jeans before I hurt myself." Mulder slips off his lap and onto the sofa; Skinner realizes his legs are almost asleep. Mulder's slim build is deceptive; he's a grown man and not a lightweight. His own legs must ache after being bent back so tightly for so long. "Listen, I don't know where this is going -- "

Mulder interrupts him. "Christ, Walt, it better be going to your bedroom."

"Tonight? Do you want that now? We could wait, I mean, I don't want to spoil anything. I want more. I *have* to have more, Mulder."

Mulder looks as cross as a small child. "I know that. Jesus, how long have I known you? But either I'm leaving now so I can go home and jack off, or else we're going upstairs."

Skinner thinks about this. Everything is such a risk, and he isn't used to taking risks without calculating them first. But Mulder sits there, rather petulantly, teasing him by stroking Skinner's erection through his jeans, waiting for an answer. He knows this man. He wants him in his life, and by god he wants him in his bed. He stands up suddenly and holds out his hand. "I'm going to fuck you, Mulder."

Mulder's lips part and his pupils dilate. "Yessir," he whispers, and stands. They kiss again, rubbing up against each other until Skinner thinks he's going to explode, then Mulder pulls away and, keeping Skinner's hand in his own, heads upstairs.

In the bedroom, Mulder pulls off his turtleneck but Skinner stops him when his hands drop to his jeans. "Let me." He slowly unbuttons them, pressing his hands into Mulder's penis underneath. They both groan at the sensation. He peels the jeans off and finds the red silk boxers he'd seen earlier that week. Mulder is blushing, but neither speaks, and Skinner carefully removes the boxers, letting his erect cock spring free.

Naked, Mulder is as beautiful as he remembers from the shower. A lovely man, a little too thin for Skinner's taste, but that can be taken care of. I'd like to put love handles on you, he thinks as he pulls Mulder into his arms and slides his hands down his back and bottom. He squeezes that bottom, then turns Mulder around so he can study him from behind. He kneels and bites his ass, then licks the red spot he's left. He kisses and licks his way into the crease and down. Mulder is shivering beneath his caresses. Still on his knees, he puts his hands on Mulder's hips and he turns him around again, this time leaning into the crisp pubic hair where takes a deep breath. He smells wonderfully: essence of Mulder. A scent he will never forget. He licks and bites at Mulder's balls and thighs, and teases his cock with his nose and tongue. Mulder moans in complaint and touches himself; Skinner takes his hands in his own and pulls them to the sides. Mulder is very obedient in this situation, so unlike work. I should keep him naked all the time, Skinner thinks, and laughs to himself.

Finally, Skinner stands and removes his own clothes. Mulder watches closely but doesn't speak or move. When Skinner is nude, he stands for a few seconds observing Mulder's response. He is staring at Skinner's cock. He slowly reaches out and pets it, then grasps it firmly and pulls once. He looks into Skinner's eyes; whatever he sees there gives him some sort of permission and he pulls again, gently pulling Skinner to him.

Their erections stroke and glide across each other, and the two men step closer. Skinner feels as though time has slowed down, that he could stand and stroke Mulder's body forever, and he hopes he will. Every touch, every caress, reveals some new sensation, some new discovery, about himself and Mulder. For one thing, he has a strong desire to experience that cock up his ass, despite what he'd promised Mulder. For another, he doesn't ever want Mulder to leave. Not his home, not his bed, not his life. He has a sudden, vivid image of them walking hand in hand, lying together in bed, arguing across a breakfast table. Fucking. Oh, yes, fucking. That's what they're about to do. What a brilliant idea, Walter.

He moves to Mulder's side, keeping him clasped in his arms, and walks him to the bed. They kneel on it together and then he gently lays Mulder down on his side and lies facing him. They might be underwater, they are moving so slowly. They stroke each other and kiss and suck and bite, moving over each other's bodies. Mulder twists his body around so his head is at Skinner's thighs and Skinner lies facing Mulder's penis. He licks at it experimentally, then sucks its head, mmm-ing around it. He massages Mulder's balls and feels his hips move in response; good. He likes a lot of sensation on his balls, too. Sharon never really understood that, but he can tell that Mulder will; he's doing something pretty wonderful to Skinner's right now. Skinner begins rubbing the loose skin of Mulder's testicles between his fingers and pressing deeply into them, while sucking fiercely on the swelling cock, using his lips and tongue to draw him deeper into his mouth, into his throat. Mulder tastes warm and salty and sweet all at the same time, and the sensation of him filling his mouth is both exciting and comforting. He sucks harder and deeper, and hears Mulder cry out, then tastes his semen, an intense dark piquancy.

"Oh, god, Walt," he hears, and continues to suck until Mulder pulls away, gasping. He rolls onto his back, and Skinner reverses direction so he can kiss Mulder's mouth, who responds eagerly. Then he turns away. "I'm almost forty, Walt," he says apologetically; "It takes me a while to, um. . ."

"I'm almost fifty, Mulder, so shut up and let me have my way with you. We have the rest of our lives." They kiss, but to Skinner's annoyance, Mulder pulls away again. He flops onto his stomach, then pushes up onto his knees and smiles invitingly over his shoulder at Skinner.

"Hey, big boy," he says, and Skinner succumbs to what he's longed to do for years and smacks that gorgeous ass as hard as he can. "Hey! That hurt!" Mulder yelps in protest, but it's too late; Skinner's hand print will remain for a while, marking that ass as his. Skinner kisses it apologetically, and then moves his ministrations to the region of Mulder that most interests him at this moment. Mulder spreads his knees even wider and groans in pleasure as Skinner begins tentatively licking his anus. "Oh, yesss," Mulder whispers, and Skinner succumbs to another long-standing desire, and eats Mulder with as much pleasure as he's experienced in years. He tastes -- better than anyone has a right to. A little salty, and some other unidentifiable flavor that Skinner believes will ultimately prove to be Mulder himself. His tongue moves in as deeply as it can and he kisses and sucks the opening as sweetly as he did Mulder's other mouth. He is in heaven.

He is also going to come in a moment, and he has other designs on Mulder's body. He gives one last kiss to the now relaxed muscle and, ignoring Mulder's plaintive noises, moves away to find some lubricant. A tube of aloe vera gel. Stuff is always so cold, so he takes a moment to warm it in his hands. "Walt," Mulder reminds him, waggling his lovely ass still marked with Skinner's hand, "what about *me.*"

Skinner responds by kissing Mulder's bottom again, and returning to his task of rimming him. Oh god, so good. Then, when the gel is warm and thin, he slips a finger inside, curls it, and twists. Mulder jumps and yells, "Yes!" which makes Skinner smile. He feels relaxed and ready for him, but Skinner whispers, "Now, Mulder?"

The only answer he receives is the welcome sight of Mulder pushing back, opening up to him. Skinner's heart is racing, he's panting, his mouth is dry with excitement and desire. He leans over Mulder's back, placing his left hand on Mulder's hip, and kisses his shoulder. He waits a moment more to calm his heart, no need to drop dead in his bed just this moment, and then presses his cock against Mulder's asshole. Skinner immediately comes, explosively, voluptuously. He collapses on Mulder's back, holding him tightly, kissing his neck and shoulder, crying out his name. "Mulder! Oh, Christ, Fox!" When his spasming ends, the two men roll to their right and lie spooned together, Skinner's arms wrapped tightly around Mulder. He bites his shoulder very gently, and, whispering again, says, "I will never let you go."

To his surprise, Mulder's shoulders begin heaving. Is he crying? Oh, god, had the sex been that bad? Is he sorry, angry? Skinner holds him even tighter. "What is it, Mulder? Fox?"

Mulder rolls over and puts his arms around Skinner. He's laughing. Skinner feels a powerful impulse to slap him but restrains himself. "What the hell is so funny?" he asks, with more hurt and puzzlement in his voice than he intends.

"I wanted this for so long. I wanted someone so badly. I never thought it could be you."

"And that makes you laugh." Flatly, all emotion withdrawn.

"No, I mean, yes. Jesus, Walt, I'm *happy*, okay? This is what I look like when I'm happy."

The two men stare at each other. Skinner says, "I'll get a washcloth. I kind of made a mess." But Mulder refuses to let go.

"I like the mess. Well, for a minute more I'd like it. Maybe later we can try again."

Well. That's promising. "Yeah. Yeah, I'd like that. I was a little, um, overexcited, I guess. It's been a while, and it's you."

"That makes a difference?"

"Yes, asshole, it makes a difference. Do you think I jump into bed with my subordinates on a regular basis?"

"Why does it make a difference?"

"Mulder."

"Come on, Walt; what difference does it make that it was me?"

Skinner thinks: This is what my life is going to be like now. He laughs to himself; well, he wanted this for a long time. Now that he has it, he'd better get used to it. "It makes a difference because I want you. Because I respect you, and want you to want and respect me in return. Because, over the years, I've learned to love you." Uh- oh, that just slipped out.

Mulder doesn't appear nonplussed by the admission. He nods his head; shit, he's the Bureau's best profiler, he's probably known longer than Skinner has. "Thank you, Walt."

* * *

Skinner wakes in the night to an empty bed. He sees a flickering light downstairs and shrugs on his robe. No Mulder in the living room, although the tv is on with the sound down, some Joe Bob Monstervision movie. Then he sees him, standing at the balcony window with the curtain pulled back. "Hey."

He turns and smiles. Skinner's heart jumps; he's happy to see me, he thinks. "Hey. Hey, look, it's stopped raining." Skinner joins him at the window and sees the clouds are rolling back. The moon is sailing overhead, an enormous pregnant moon gleaming in the night sky.

He feels Mulder take his hand and twine his fingers through his. He looks at Mulder; standing this close, he has to tilt his head back slightly to meet the other man's eyes. He's never had a lover taller than himself before. They stand in the brilliant moonlight, together, and then Mulder clears his throat. "Walt." He drops his eyes, then raises them again and looks into Skinner's. "I love you, Walt."

* * *

Mulder is pleased by Skinner's reaction to his admission. He looks stunned. Even though only a few hours ago, Skinner had told him that he loved Mulder, he seems not to have anticipated the possibility that his love was reciprocated. From the look on his face, he may not completely believe it.

Mulder is charmed by this new aspect of Skinner, as shy lover. They stand in the moonlight, holding hands, staring at each other. Mulder feels compelled to speak again, to persuade Skinner of his feelings for him, to seduce Skinner into believing him. He leans his head toward Skinner, enjoying the fact that he is slightly taller, and lightly kisses his way from Skinner's cheekbone to his jaw to his lips. When he reaches Skinner's mouth, he pauses, inhaling deeply, remembering the smell of Skinner's body, his penis, the dark-scented testicles.

Skinner stands motionless, breathing shallowly. Then he slowly tips his head toward Mulder. They look into each other's eyes, and Mulder smiles. He can't stop smiling around Skinner; what will people think at work? But it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter. All that matters is that Skinner stands before him, open to him. Mulder remembers -- Mulder's body remembers -- Skinner holding him, touching him, loving him. Mulder leans closer and feels Skinner's breath against his cheek. He says again, "I love you." For a heartbeat more they stand in the luminous glimmer, then Mulder closes his eyes and opens his mouth and tastes his lover's passion.

* * *

Scully wakes the next morning to a sunny day. She feels great. All the premenstrual blues have retreated for another month. Her room smells of roses, a wonderful scent to wake up to. She remembers Mulder and sits up suddenly, tempted to call him. But what would she say? Hey partner, did you get laid last night? That makes her laugh right out loud. She glances over to a picture of her much-loved sister, tucked away on her bureau. Thank you, Missy. And thank you, Mulder, for giving me a reason to bring her back into my life.

* * *

The days of our future stand before us  
like a row of little lighted candles --  
golden, warm, and lively little candles.  
\-- Cavafy

**Author's Note:**

> Melissa Scully, I am sorry to report, plagiarized shamelessly from Susan Bowes' _Notions and Potions_ and especially from Starhawk's _The Spiral Dance_. All the rituals that Dana Scully performed were drawn from those two books, except the Moon ritual, most of which I made up.
> 
> To the authors of those books and to any Wiccans: No harm was intended, none in the world, just the means to achieve a much-desired end.


End file.
